


Wear Your Heart on Your Skin

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Series: Wear Your Heart on Your Skin [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Banter, Clothed Sex, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Geraskier Week, Geraskier Week 2020, Hand Jobs, Love Bites, M/M, Making Out, Marking, My First Work in This Fandom, Size Kink, Snark, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: A witcher and a bard walk into a bar.There's a very good reason Jaskier's a bit of a pushy knob when it comes to approaching the seemingly unavailable, and that reason has been sitting comfortably on the side of his lovely buttocks—specifically, up his right side and ending up by his hip bone—for the past two years in the form of the lingeringly-scrawled wordsI'm here to drink alone.Hence his insistence on scanning any room he happens to be occupying for any lonesome drinkers and the like, especially when said rooms are of the public house variety.(Written for Geraskier Week 2020 Day 1: Soulmates.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Wear Your Heart on Your Skin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751836
Comments: 69
Kudos: 1695





	Wear Your Heart on Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Discovered Geraskier Week existed, like, three days ago, but I was getting over a slight cold at the time and couldn't properly write for it. This is a little late, and my first Witcher fic, so I'm rightfully nervous. Any encouragement will be greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> Title from Sylvia Plath.

There's a very good reason Jaskier's a bit of a pushy knob when it comes to approaching the seemingly unavailable, and that reason has been sitting comfortably on the side of his lovely buttocks—specifically, up his right side and ending up by his hip bone—for the past two years in the form of the lingeringly-scrawled words _I'm here to drink alone._ Hence his insistence on scanning any room he happens to be occupying for any lonesome drinkers and the like, especially when said rooms are of the public house variety.

It may have started as idle curiosity, but it's instinct at this point to search out any solitary figures. He's long abandoned the idea of finding his _person_ , but he's landed himself in some very interesting situations in this manner, of much greater interest than wandering the countryside with just his lute as company, and he's gotten more than a couple of jaunty tunes with which to entertain the masses from it besides.

That being said, he realises he may be treading shallow, Selkiemore-infested waters about two seconds after sitting himself down across from the only person in the entire inn sitting by themselves, in the shadows, with two, uh, pointy swords resting nearby.

He still asks for a review. It's in his nature, especially since nothing is likely to be thrown at him for the moment.

"They don't exist." Ah, well, _details_ , right.

But the stranger doesn't sit up and leave as expected given his succinct manner of responding to Jaskier's inquiries and his obviously annoyed countenance, and Jaskier's brain, by this point, has caught up with his mouth and the words spoken and the general proceedings, which seems to be far behind the stranger's understanding of the situation judging by the already-existing sharpness in the gold-tinged eyes. And—golden eyes, pale hair, pointy swords—Jaskier's definitely an idiot.

He tries to whisper it, but it still comes out slightly louder than he means it to, his excitement hardly contained. "You're a witcher. _The_ Witcher. Geralt of Rivia." He doesn't say, _My words are on your body, beneath your clothes, as are yours on mine,_ because that would be rude, and Jaskier's anything but, he's the most charming person he knows.

But Geralt of Rivia might be a little rude, because this time he does stand abruptly to pick up his belongings, before walking off wordlessly. When Jaskier only sits there doing a decent impression of a fish, he turns around enough to say over his shoulder, his face turned more away than not, "I'm booking us a room." Jaskier is very much in favour of this, now himself standing up quickly enough to almost topple over his chair.

He follows behind at a decently casual pace, even though he wants to swing from the pillars, flushed and giddy as he is. Instead, he makes his life easier by taking the bread out and grabbing his meagre possessions to put it away. Geralt must read some intent there regardless, because he finishes speaking to the innkeeper swiftly and snags Jaskier's wrist to move him where he wants him, which is the upstairs of the inn.

Although Jaskier goes along gladly, he feels as if some measure of talking should occur beforehand, or at least start before they stop being vertical, which he hopes will be soon. He expresses that sentiment by starting with the easiest opening he has, an undemanding, "I'm Jaskier, by the way," which Geralt promptly ignores.

Words clipped, betrayed by a faint flush across the tops of his cheeks, he says, "We're doing this only the once, and that's it." His grip is tight on Jaskier's wrist, still, as he's dragged up the stairs.

The words don't make sense and Geralt seems determined, so Jaskier falls over himself to ask, "Why?"

"Because I say so," Geralt grunts, and Jaskier doesn't get a chance to reply. He's busy getting pushed first into the farthest room from the staircase, right at the end of the corridor, and then into the back of the closed door of said room, and _then_ he's being kissed while Geralt boxes him in between his arms, elbows by Jarkier's ears.

Actually, he pauses before his lips begin to insistently mouth at Jaskier's to stare from his eyes to his mouth and back again, to which Jaskier nods rather than speak, afraid he might sound too young and definitely inexperienced, and thus easily ruin his chances when Geralt's already so determined not to give him what they both want.

Consent given, he gets kissed then. He kisses back. Of bloody course he does. Talking's suddenly not the least bit important. They're in broad daylight, sunshine spilling through a window in the corner, people downstairs drinking and talking and living their lives, but Jaskier's got the most gorgeous person he has ever laid eyes upon in his short eighteen years precisely where they both need to be, which is trying to divest each other of their clothing while Geralt's tongue plunges into his mouth to lick lewdly at his soft insides and make him pant into their kiss.

Geralt manages to unbutton his doublet and his trousers in short order, well before Jaskier himself has found a way beneath several layers of whatever Geralt is wearing to find actual skin, and is sinking his dry palm into said trousers to grasp at him directly. Jaskier's cock is only half-hard, but it only takes one stroke to have him fattening up so quickly the blood leaving his brain for his nether regions turns him lightheaded for a few moments.

He has to get into Geralt's trousers, like, yesterday, or possibly two years before when, on his sixteenth birthday, he found himself marked for someone, not left behind. He detaches his mouth to better focus, but it leaves Geralt with free access to his neck, which he uses to kiss a trail up to his ear and take the lobe in his mouth to suck on it while Jaskier's still struggling with ties and buttons.

His prize comes soon enough. By this point, Geralt's graduated to sucking a mighty bruise into the side of his neck, a throbbing thing which aches sweetly and has Jaskier making a mess of Geralt's palm where he's still being stroked and fondled and driven slowly out of his mind. But Jaskier finally— _finally_ —reaches inside to grip at Geralt's cock, only to find himself severely outmatched. As in, his fingers refuse to comfortably meet around him. He moans then, not least because Geralt thumbs at his cockhead to spread the wetness around as he bites down on Jaskier's neck right below the mark he's already sucked into it. Mostly, it's about Geralt's fat cock and dizzying thoughts of how he's going to struggle deliciously to take it in any way he physically can.

For his part, Geralt doesn't seem particularly affected by Jaskier's fingers on him. Not in the way Jaskier himself is with everything that's happening.

He takes a different tack there. His fingers drag upwards to the head, though he requires his other hand to hold his prick straight rather than leaving him heavily leaning forward due to its own weight. Thumbing the foreskin back and forth across the head has the desired outcome of getting Geralt's cock all wet at the tip, pre-come bubbling stickily and leaking down the shaft. He drags it around with broad strokes which only become tighter the more Geralt's hips start moving with him, thrusting easily into his palm. Ragged breaths shift the flyaways at the base of Jaskier's neck. He'd crow in satisfaction if he weren't having trouble stifling his own moans.

Shortly, he hears: "Where is it?" Geralt breathes it into saliva-damp skin, over bruises and bites. Jaskier's toes curl inside his boots.

His response might come late, he's not sure. "Where's what?"

"Your mark. My words," Geralt grunts, and gives a tight squeeze to the base of his cock he follows up with an even tighter drag of his fingers up to the glans to play with his slit.

Jaskier tries for a laugh, but it comes out as a smothered hiccup. "You'd have to take my trousers off for that." He wants to make it sound cheeky and flirty and inviting, but he instead sounds breathless and more than a little desperate.

Geralt doesn't seem to mind. In fact, his rhythm increases, his wrist cleverly twisting when he's right up at Jaskier's cockhead on every stroke. Jaskier pants and swears and tries to hold on, but his knees threaten to buckle and his balls ache and, next thing he knows, he's dirtying Geralt's palm with his spend. His gasp when he comes turns to a filthy moan they must hear from downstairs as Geralt bites swiftly into the meat of his shoulder through his undershirt. 

He's not entirely useless to Geralt then, or he doesn't want to be. Even though his limbs would rather not move for the next couple of days, he focuses his energies and his attention on fisting Geralt's lovely cock confidently. It takes surprisingly little once he starts really going at it, panting, "Go on, do it, filthy me up," into his ear.

His spend is thick and hot in his palm, and Jaskier wants to taste it but fears any sudden movement would surely spoil the afterglow and perhaps have Geralt running out the door. Hence they stand, Geralt leaning into him, the door at his back.

Minutes pass, during which Jaskier is loathe to speak, to break the silence and the spell they're under, but he feels like he should say something. In the end, he goes with, "Should we stop?" He doesn't feel he needs to give his feelings on _that_ , however.

He can't see Geralt's face where it's still buried into the side of his neck and currently dragging his lips lightly up and down the column of it, across marked skin sure to bruise purple by the morrow. Jaskier's question halts the movement, but then he mutters in the gruff voice Jaskier's already grown to secretly like, "The room is booked through the night."

That's... promising. Jaskier can work with promising.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments will, of course, be highly appreciated, but mostly I'm just happy to be here. I got very obsessed in a very short span of time, ain't gonna lie. Welcome to the fandom for me, I guess.
> 
> Also: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/), where I am pretty active, though I need to meet an actual person who's into Geraskier over there, and soon.


End file.
